Between
by livengoo
Summary: A Winchester finds himself in a place where he must choose.


Between

by livengoo

email livengoo at characters AND the car belong to WB and McG.

And thank you Amperage - Excellent advice!

Minor spoilers for Devils' Trap. No warnings.

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The blare of the horn startled him awake.

He jolted upright, rubbing his chest where the steering wheel of the car had dug into his ribs.

Froze for a second, then slowly turned, looked around him. A car, old, he knew that. He didn't know how he'd come to be here but . . .

His hand shook just a little when he reached up to tilt the rear view mirror and look at his own face. Greenish eyes looked back at him. For a heartbeat he thought he saw blood, but nothing was there. He frowned, tracing an even hairline, down over quizzical eyebrows. Tilted the mirror again to see a strong jaw, full lips. Blinked. Familiar and strange all at once and it wasn't really important who he was.

Where he was . . . was the car.

For an instant it felt cramped, wrong, and he hissed a breath, then calmed. The leather of the seat was smooth under his hand, worn but well cared for. A bench seat, one side of the car to the other. He let his hand rest on the steering wheel. Chrome and enamel were smooth and hard, and leather soft under his fingers. It was quiet. He licked dry lips, grimaced at the stale taste in his mouth. Looked up and out, at a road.

It was an empty here. Wide fields, low cut like winter wheat before it's plowed under but after the harvest. The road ran straight before him, towards a horizon where the sun sat red and heavy, half an oval on the far edge of the day.

He looked around slowly. The bones in his neck cracked as he turned his head. Ached. Head and neck alike ached. The front seat was nearly empty, just a map sprawled messily across the seat beside him. The lines on it made no sense, not to him.

The back seat was empty too. He frowned. Reached over to run a finger over the leather of the passenger side and it wasn't warm and it wasn't cool, it was only smooth. The keys were in the ignition but they were off. He licked his lips again, ran a hand over the wheel again, over the dash. Then reached down fast before he could change his mind, and opened the door.

It creaked loudly and swung halfway, stopped. He had to push it hard to get it to swing open all the way. Stepped out.

The road was blacktop, old fashioned blacktop, the kind that looked grainy and had cracks and little streaks of tar.

He stood up straight and looked behind him. There was a storm there, at his back. Darker than night would make it, and jagged with lightning. He could smell the rain and the lightning, feel the gusts of wind in the heavy, damp air, but the rain was a long way away and the thunder barely made a sound. He blinked and for an instant felt the world tilt. For an instant the metal beside him was bent and ruined, the silence full of distorted music and the echo of voices. But when he tried to understand what they said, it was quiet. Only the breeze rustled in the fields and the thunder was a dull, distant noise.

Nothing here, nothing at all. He lifted his face, looked up where the clouds roiled overhead, hinting at what would come, hoping for the touch of rain to wash the sticky, grubby feeling from his skin. But nothing came. He held his breath and nothing . . . came. Finally let it out and let his shoulders drop. Turned back to look at the sun, still red and still heavy on the edge of the world. Standing now, he could see where the road looked like it might meet another. He stepped out from around the car door and took a few steps, muscles aching, chest tight.

Had to stop, wait, rubbing at his chest as he tried to catch his breath. It felt wet and hot under his hand but when he looked, only skin, with old dirt, maybe, maybe engine grease, was worn into the lines of his palm. From the corner of his eye the car looked wrong and the whisper of wind in the stubble sounded like it was calling a name, louder as the wind picked up and then sharp, a yell. He spun towards it, knew that it was calling a name that was his, but nothing was there. It was just the wind.

He blinked, rubbed his scratchy eyes and sighed. The setting sun shot crimson gleams over the glossy black of the car. Crimson drops down the door of the car. He frowned. Shook his head and they were gone.

There weren't any buildings across the fields. No tractors. No sheds. No little roads. He turned back around and there was just this. The fields. And off in the distance what looked like one road, making a cross with his own.

Crossroads. That meant something, he knew it did. He started to walk towards it again and maybe it wasn't that flat out here, or not as flat as it seemed.

He must have reached a small rise because he could see the road that crossed his own. Just as black, as old, as tarred as his own. Beyond it there was a shimmer and a shadow, like water and trees. He drew a deep breath and the rain was hanging in the air but nothing fell.

The wind spoke in a voice he'd known for a lifetime. It whispered words in the fields, asking questions, calling names, and some of them might have been his . . . but he really wasn't sure.

He walked on, down a low grade, up a swell just as small and as subtle but now he saw the water fully. It gleamed in the setting sun, steel and red under the pregnant sky. Could smell the water and it wasn't like the rain, not a tease of what might come. It was a promise, soothing and crisp and clean.

There were trees there, tall and leafy. A small building hunched in their lee, protected by their shade. He drew another breath of the lake's promise, smelled smoke. Smoke from a wood fire, gentle and warm. Shivered and it was cold now, not hot like it had been, but still the rain wouldn't come, and the fields and road were dry.

The acrid stink of the tar, and the dirty old oil and the rain were all on the breeze from his back. He glanced their way, into the night, where the lightning struck. Swallowed hard. Turned back to the sun and breathed in the promise of a clean lake to wash his skin, and a warm fire in a snug lodge and he knew, just knew, there'd be a chair there. Big and deep and he'd be able to just sit there forever.

He took another step. The wind in the fields rose and whipped, calling, voices wailing in its path.

He could almost feel that lake's water, washing him clean, soothing his aches. Almost smell the way a wooden cabin smells on a cool night, with the fire low and warm and crackling on the hearth.

But it was so far, past the crossroads.

He turned and looked back at the car. It wasn't smooth anymore. The long lines were crumpled, bent, and it was smoking from under the hood. He blinked and it still smoked and somehow he thought he should see people inside, but he didn't. It rested empty and ruined behind him, between him and the storm.

He took another step and he could hear the lake now, lapping gently at a shore he couldn't see.

He could smell it, see the greener grass beyond the crossroads.

But it was too far.

He could reach the lake . . .

But behind him stood his car and from the corner of his eye it was perfect still, smooth and fine, cold metal and hot fuel. When he turned his head and looked back, it was . . .for an instant a wreck, for an instant not, and neither or both were true. He rubbed at his face and felt that hot wet trickle on his chest that wasn't there. The ache in his head that was so far away.

And the lake was there. But he could only walk so far.

And if he reached that chair, he could stay there forever. And he would.

And the car would stay here. Forever.

Empty.

On the road.

He'd been walking, feelng more than thinking, breathing in the scent of the lake. It was clean and fine and he longed for it with all of his heart.

But the crossroads was here. And he stopped.

And looked back. Away from the lake, towards his car and the storm.

And he shut his eyes and wished, wished, that this was not a decision he had to make.

But it was.

And he opened his eyes. And looked back. Towards the storm.


End file.
